


Nothing but salt

by Hashilavalamp



Series: We reap what we sow [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1871, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Illustrated, SORRY THAT I KEEP EDITING THIS BUT, also gilbert being a weird older brother is a thing here, because i am a history nerd and I am only a little sorry, poor francis suffers, post-unification wars, this is now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6866209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hashilavalamp/pseuds/Hashilavalamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Defeat is never an easy thing to bear, but somehow Prussia always knows how to make it so much worse, presenting the fruits of his labor, and France will never forgive him for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing but salt

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooo there. This is. my first fanfiction for this fandom that I basically wrote because I am a history nerd. This does not mean this will be 1000% correct in portrayal, but I. I tried. I hope you have fun reading this...!

7th January, 1871

Vanity and the remnants of his battered pride dictate that he check his appearance one last time before heading out of the room to greet his… guests.

He carefully brushes over the fabric of his uniform to straighten out some of the wrinkles, wincing when he applies a little too much pressure to the still fresh wounds underneath the cloth and the bandages. The injuries his body sustains heal quickly, but the damage wrought upon his people takes time.  
Hopefully he will be spared the humiliation of the blood seeping through. He’ll have that at least that, if the powder already can’t properly cover the cuts and bruises on his face.

Bitter anger bubbles up in his chest at the sight of the swelling around his left eye in the mirror, forcing him to avert his eyes finally so the rage burning beneath his skin does not take him over. He never wore the feeling well and the situation is too delicate for him to risk it. He has already as good as lost, Germans are already swarming the city, there is nothing to gain from provoking further.

He does not wear defeat well either, but he will do his best to wear it with dignity.

The doors of the room are pushed open and with his shoulders pushed back and his head held high he strides down the corridor, past the sullen-looking guards in the palace. He pays them no more attention than he does the pain that shoots through his leg at every step and moves straight towards the meeting room he has been designated to – he would have considered it a bit of a slight under different circumstances, and he is comforted by the knowledge that it is still lavish enough to instill wonder in the less fortunate.

A large decorated desk takes up the middle of the room and when he takes his seat on one side of it, staring at the doors at the far end of the room, he briefly feels like it’s him in control. The sweet illusion of power, he reminds himself. No arrogance, no unnecessary posturing, he’d only make himself look like a fool.

The minutes tick by in a countdown as the sense of finality sinks into his conscious with each second lost.

And at last the doors open for his guests, and the unmistakable stench of blood and death rolls into the rich rooms, immediately sticking to every bit of furniture and every last crevice like the plague.  
Under the bandages, the wounds sting and ooze blood.

“Francis! How rude of you to not give us a proper welcoming ceremony! You truly wound me” the first figure that steps into the room calls, his voice as grating and unpleasant as ever, further twisted with the arrogant triumph of a victor. Taking even the liberty to call him by his human name. God, Francis already wants nothing more than to bash in his grinning face.

Patience. Patience is key.

“Gilbert” he acknowledges curtly with the same impolite familiarity, not even rising from his seat and instead peering past the offending visitor to see just whom Prussia had referred to with ‘us’.   
Hovering on the threshold a little ways behind the man stand two quite familiar people that make his lips curl into a bitter smile; Austria hangs back predictably, studying the room with feigned interest so he won’t have to meet anyone’s eye, and next to him with a nearly apologetic smile on his face, one of the Italian boys. Roderich and Feliciano, the eternal traitors.

To see them comes as no surprise, but a dreadful feeling settles in Francis’ gut as the doors close behind them and each of the three takes a seat opposite from him without invitation.  
Only three of them.

“Excuse me if I cut the welcoming a little short, but I don’t quite remember inviting you” Francis speaks once they have all settled, fixing Gilbert with an even stare, the lump in his throat growing when he catches movement behind him. But the next instance whatever he saw has disappeared, leaving only the Prussian perched on the chair like a king.  
“Much less either of you” he presses on with a look at Feliciano and Roderich and with barely restrained distaste, trying to maintain a casual tone to not let them have the satisfaction of seeing him angry.  
That is a feeling he needs to contain and nurture for later, when the wounds have healed and the Prussian has his back turned. Rage is like a fine wine and revenge a delicious dessert.

Roderich proceeds to stare at the walls with an impassive expression and Feliciano’s smile falters a little, as it should. Gilbert however doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “They are my company” he replies haughtily, placing his hands on the desk’s surface and lacing his pale boney fingers together. “And I would kindly advise you not to verbally attack them.”

Francis feels his hands twitch at the thin-veiled threat, and to keep calm he mimics the barbarian’s posture to give his hands something other to do than wring the bastard’s neck and subsequently bringing doom upon himself.  
Gilbert still dons the sullied uniform from the battlefield, and when he opens his mouth, the stink of congealing blood hits Francis like a slap.

“That was never my intention, even if I would have every reason to do so, wouldn’t you say?” he retorts with a forced smile, relishing in the downwards curl of Roderich’s lips and his glare from behind the glasses.  
“I am sorry, François” Feliciano says, the name rolling off his tongue with so much ease and so much more melodious than out of the Prussian mouth. His brown eyes hold the glint of unshed crocodile tears, making his words seem almost sincere. “But I had to take the opportunity, no? My heart yearned for it so much, it’s not something the likes of us can ignore - I could not be complete without it! It was nothing personal, nothing aimed against you, I swear.”

Mhm, of course.

Heart or not, thief remains thief and no charming smile can make you anything else.

“I believe you, and will not harbor a grudge against you” Francis responds and inclines his head slightly as an indication of his benevolent forgiveness. Or something along these lines. No verbal attacks allowed, after all. The terrible pain in his leg flares up again and with horror he realizes he has bled through the bandages over the deep gash there.  
Some of the tension seems to leave Feliciano and he gives a pretentious little happy sigh at the sign of forgiveness. “Oh thank you! I will not—“

“The question remains, Gilbert, as to why you have these two accompanying you. Surely they have supported you along the way in your endeavor in one way or another but I was not aware this concerns them. Or will there be Austrians and Italians among the humans tomorrow?” France cuts the teenage nation off, not interested in listening to the fake groveling and much more interested in ridding himself of this nauseating feeling, of the cold dread coiling in his stomach.  
His boss didn’t want to tell him what will happen tomorrow, but he can obviously already imagine what it is.  
And Gilbert seems to be bursting with triumph.

He bears his teeth in a wide grin, the mirth for once reaching these disgusting red eyes that reflect the blood he sheds anywhere he goes.

So that means—

“You are not so far from the truth, my friend” he sneers and slowly pulls his hands apart to push himself to his feet in a surprisingly elegant motion, although for a moment he seems stumble. How nice to see he did sustain some damage as well.

“You must have wondered where I left Bayern, yes? Baden? Württemberg?” The voice like nails on a blackboard drifts over to them, the words nails in Europe’s coffin as Gilbert saunters towards the doors of the meeting room with unshakable confidence.

The doors open just the smallest of cracks and then fall shut again with a foreboding thud.  
Roderich stares at the walls again as if that could somehow get him out of the situation, his jaw clenched. His nose is broken, Francis notes. And his fingers still a bit crooked from when Gilbert broke them. There’s a wedding ring there now though, a band of companionship and humiliation all at once. Feliciano sways his upper body from side to side with a smile still plastered on his sunny face, but the gesture obviously one of pure nervousness and lack of alternative, the dark eyes flitting around aimlessly.  
Francis braces himself against the table.

Whoever entered the room is shielded from view by Prussia who guides the person closer to them with his back turned and only when he nearly bumps into his chair again, he comes to a halt.

They all bate their breath; and then Gilbert turns around.

“Begrüßt das deutsche Reich, meine Freunde!“

The words echo loud in this room with terrible absoluteness, and in front of Gilbert now stands the ugliest child Francis ever had the misfortune of setting eyes on.

It’s the little boy Francis has seen before on the battlefield, clad in a Prussian uniform that seemed too big on such a small frame, but already he stands to attention like the ruler of worlds. Or just an audaciously megalomanic soldier. Almost like a worthy successor to the pitiful Holy Roman Empire. (They do seem to share the facial features—)  
Somebody obviously tried to slick back the child’s blonde hair, even if some strands fall out of place over his high forehead – but nothing, no attempt at making this child look presentable can distract from the angry red of fresh scars and the black lines of fine stitching stretching across his face, some more prominent than others. His entire body must be covered in them.  
Gilbert put together a sickening abomination.  
image

“Benvenuto, Germania!” Feliciano suddenly all but coos, and with a slight delay and a lot of reluctance Roderich too turns and greets the child in their shared uncivilized language. Gilbert looks like he’s drunk on his own pride when he hears his eternal rival speak these words.  
Expectant ruby fixes Francis.

The nation swallows, his throat suddenly feeling itchy, and humiliation coursing through his blood. How dare he. How dare that barbarian.  
Then, should he have expected anything else of that man? They had never gotten along, too different in their natures and goals, because Francis is at his core not a man of war, and for Gilbert it’s the only legitimation for life he has. Seeing nations bleed out makes his heart skip, and if they wallow in humiliation, even better.

So of course he would present the boy to them in this place. (Nevermind that they haven’t taken Paris yet so–)

And now they expect him to greet this child, this child born from his defeat.

Francis swallows the bitter pill and the bitter words of protest and forces out a welcoming to the new nation in their midst, officially recognizing it.  
He will remember this transgression. He will remember it, oh, Prussia won’t be the only that should be careful to not turn his damn back to him.

Even if a part of him tells him it is cruel to think of just a defenseless child in such a manner – a little child that knows no better and who doesn’t know to question the one who totes himself as his brother.  
But then Francis remembers that this is not the first time he has seen a fledgling nation. He remembers his European family, remembers America and Canada with their odd sweetness.

And this thing before him is not like them. There’s something fierce in the piercing stare of the watery blue eyes that does not belong to a child, and the scars are a reminder that this is not a natural thing. Nothing more than a living, breathing trophy. A trophy for a warmonger.

It keeps silent and stubbornly stares ahead and past Francis, as if it hadn’t heard the welcome, and Gilbert places his hands on the creature’s small shoulders, still grinning like a devil.  
“I felt it would only be fair to let you meet him first, that is why I brought us together” he explains, the skin on his face stretching in protest in his attempts to widen the grimace of mirth. “Roderich!”

The nation addressed flinches and with an expression of utter apprehension looks Gilbert in the face.  
“You, who spent years trying to smother this idea, were so eager to expand your influence again when I picked up where you had left things! Who knows what you would have done if I hadn’t beaten you back then. But you submitted like the clever man you are, so I was generous with you. Just stepped on your fingers a little. Thus you helped me in this endeavor of mine, so consider this your reward.”

Roderich looks like he is rather going to develop a nervous tic than feel grateful about this ‘honor’ granted to him, and Francis can’t even find joy in that anymore.

“Feliciano, you were never my enemy and you’ve proven yourself useful! Furthermore, you must surely empathize with my poor little brother and his situation. Just take a look at the child, he looks like he’s going to fall apart if you push him the wrong way!” On cue, Gilbert squeezes the shoulder of the child and for the first time it shows a semblance of humanity and winces in pain. “You lack the discipline to act as a mentor for him, but it seems only fair to have you be one of the first to meet him as a nation proper.”

Disgusting, how Feliciano lacks the shame to look anything but smug.

“So here—“

“Brother.”

All three of them stare at the fledgling again who had for the very first time spoken. And interrupted his brother at that, who stares at him with an almost comical expression of incredulousness, the self-satisfied smirk sliding off his harsh face.

“I can speak for myself, brother” the nation says again, with a little more force this time and his childish features twist in petulant determination. Would have been cute on any other child’s face.

Gilbert must be too stunned to punish him for speaking out of line, because he merely stands there and looks at the kid. Great to see that not five minutes had passed and yet the great Prussia already failed to keep his new brother in line.

“I am not afraid of any of you, I should establish this right away. Even if you are older than I, you do not scare me in the least, especially not you, France. No many how many obstacles were put in our way, I stand before you now as a proper nation—“  
“That is enough, Germany!” Gilbert barks suddenly and the child’s face immediately drains of the color it gained during his little speech. He pulls up his shoulders and tenses, however Gilbert refrains from inflicting pain again. “This is not the time for you to speak.”  
“But—“  
“What did I tell you was a value you’d do well to remember!”  
“…Obedience.”

The answer is muttered without defiance left, the fight quickly taken out of the small thing in the face of his brother’s flaring anger.  
Again, Francis’ whole body aches with the hidden bruises and lacerations and gashes. Maybe he can pity that child after all, even if it desperately seems to be in need of self-awareness. Not afraid, ah?

Roderich clicks his tongue in disapproval on the side and haughtily pushes up his glasses, as if he momentarily forgot he has lost his right to exercise influence on the nation. He is lucky Gilbert ignores him.

A tense minute ticks by, and without any warning, Gilbert pinches the cheek of the child.

“Isn’t he precious though!” he exclaims loudly and laughs freely when the boy scowls and rubs his cheek with his gloved hand. Feliciano’s lilting laughter joins his in a moment as the child mumbles something immature. Francis cringes at the display when the white-haired man pats the child on the head; it feels unsettling, so wrong to see Prussia so affectionate towards something that doesn’t involve death. From the looks of it, Austria is far from happy about it as well.

“Such an idiotic boy! You haven’t even learned anything yet! Lucky you that you have such a capable brother!” Gilbert and Feliciano continue to dote on the creature before them, making Francis want to throw all of them out. He was beaten, and this child gets to live and is doted upon like he has done anything to deserve it.

Ah… perhaps he is getting old.

That must be it. Too much happening at once, too many losses, too little resources. It makes his people reel, this lack of stability. And now he has to tell them that another player has entered the stage that could very well end up causing issues for them.

Or even worse than just issues.

He knows that brash and arrogant things like that always grow hungry, and this one has already as good as devoured his other siblings – and he will have some of Francis’ territory as well.  
This child is not good news in any case.

The last time Francis felt like this, there had been the cold metal of a guillotine cutting through the flesh of his neck.

“Now now, back to business” Gilbert eventually says and takes his seat again, his little brother obediently taking his place behind him, his cheeks still a little flushed from the attention and his childish indignation.

“Is there anything more you wish to inform me of that cannot wait till tomorrow?” Francis asks tiredly, trying to pass it off as disinterest, even if he knows his own face must be so pale that it could match Gilbert’s natural corpse-like complexion. He subtly shifts his position on his chair to relieve himself of some pressure on his injured limb.

“Yes, do we need to stay here longer than necessary?” Roderich finally piques up, more proactive in his approach than he has been in months somehow. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and shoots his neighbor a little glare.

Gilbert hums contently anyway. “Patience! You have no patience, the two of you! It’s important, I assure you!” With a wolfish smirk he leans as far as he can across the desk and looks up at Francis with those eerie red eyes.  
“We won’t see again in a long time after this is done and over with, Francis. A very long time, in fact.”

“Oh? What do I owe that honor to?” Francis allows himself to quip, seeing that the little bit of anger is enough to make Gilbert’s smile turn genuine.

“Your ties to the others of us will be cut off.”

A heartbeat—

“What?!”

Gilbert straightens himself up and continues to wear this infuriating smile as if he already owned the world.  
“You see, I’ve spoken with the others. And none of them are all too fond of you, particularly after how pathetic you’ve proven yourself to be. All of this—“ Gilbert gestures wildly around at the decadent decorations of the room, “is a relic of old grandeur, but you’ve lost your bite and the others have taken notice. You are surrounded. Europe is a friend of yours no longer, France.”

—and the gravity of the words sinks in, truly sinks in to enter his system like potent poison.

He does not bother to look at Roderich because that comes as no surprise but Feliciano—Feliciano again gives him an apologetic, hesitant smile. “I’ve told you, it’s nothing personal” he says and ducks his head sheepishly. Stellar performance. Why does he even bother.

“Out! Out of here, with all of you!” Francis feels himself shouting, oddly disconnected from himself in the heat of the moment. His vision is blurry and he vaguely notices that his hands are shaking and that he has sprung to his feet. The pain is unbearable, but the rage that eats him up is worse.  
He told himself he wouldn’t let it come to this, that he would remain calm.  
That he would keep his dignity.

Well, so much for that.

Gilbert looks so smug. So happy.

“Oho. Somebody is not taking the news well. But alright, I am sure there is something our boss has to discuss with us for tomorrow, so we will leave you to contemplate your new circumstances” he laughs and when he gets up this time, the other two follow suit, quickly shuffling out of the room before the newly made outcast can try to get his hands on them.

Prussia and Germany linger, quietly arguing among themselves as they make their way to the exit. The little boy then stops in his limping tracks and roughly tugs at the sleeve of his brother’s uniform. Francis half-expects the bastard to slap the child for the audacity; however he miraculously stays still and listens to whatever the brat demands.

His gaze slides back towards France.

“Francis, can you believe it?” he says, genuine wonder coloring his tone. “The boy wants to get his human name from me at last. Because I called you by one.”

“Get out, Gilbert. I don’t care to hear it.”

The Prussian grimaces, the childishness a lot more misplaced on a face like his, and thankfully wipes the expression off only a moment later. “How rude of you. I liked you better when you were full of pretense. When you were just like this palace.”

Another impatient tug from the child.

“Oh damnit—Yes, yes. The palace is the perfect setting for this actually. Francis, many of your bosses have been named Louis, have they not? Many must’ve resided here.”

Francis does not deign him with an answer.

“Ludwig. How does that name sound to you, Germany?” Gilbert coos, and the child actually smiles in another display of humanity, eyes wide and for the moment innocent. “Yes. Ludwig is a fine name for a nation like you.”

It’s never enough for Gilbert to just see the other bleed and leave in his wake the grime and sickening stench of violence.

With a loud, final thud, the doors fall shut.

He always needs to rub in the salt of humiliation.


End file.
